


Toward Hearth and Home

by goldenteaset



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: 3+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: "He thinks that the world works like the morality tales the storytellers spin—follow the rules, and no harm will come to you.He soon learns otherwise."Three murders Kurapika committed, and when he put down his weapons.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I used a slightly different format than usual for this fic, but I don't think it'll be confusing! It's still in chronological order. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Hunter x Hunter.

The first time Kurapika kills…

…He barely remembers it, only the circumstances that led to the event.

It’s winter. A rabid creature has come to his village, a wild-eyed, screeching thing with matted fur and a frothing mouth. (Or so eyewitnesses claim.) The attacks are at night, just before the sun sets and people are eager to return to the warmth of their homes. Blood crystalizes on the snow, and in the morning the cold sun illuminates the gleaming blood like a fresh coat of paint. The elders are relieved that there are bodies to mourn; it isn’t always that way.

Kurapika is a dutiful child: he doesn’t stay out after dark, he always carries his wooden blades and practices with Pairo every day. _Someone will kill the beast soon. Then Pairo and I can play out in the woods again!_ He thinks that the world works like the morality tales the storytellers spin—follow the rules, and no harm will come to you.

He soon learns otherwise.

It happens on an overcast day, the thick, charcoal clouds pregnant with snow—hopefully not sleet. The attacks have stopped—everyone assumes the beast perished in the harsh storm last month. Kurapika gets his wish, in a manner of speaking: he and Pairo are foraging for wood, to keep the village hearths blazing. Their snowshoes of warm yak wool and sturdy chestnut _crunch_ easily through the snow, and they chat loudly to stave off the lonely silence. The forest around them stands in eerie vigil, the leafless trees’ shadows hunch over the bone-white ground like mourners.

Kurapika shifts the bundle of sticks in his arms, wishing he could wipe the sweat off his brow and neck—wool is warm, yes, but it’s easy to feel overheated while bundled up like this.

Pairo suddenly halts in his tracks, his head cocked and listening intently. “Kurapika…do you hear that?”

Kurapika follows Pairo’s example: he closes his eyes and listens, ready for any whisper of wind, or cracking branch. But there is nothing to hear.

“It’s alright,” Kurapika says, adjusting his bundle again. “Just your imagination.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiles reassuringly. “We’ll be home soon,” he says, and his heart feels a little lighter with each word.

Pairo nods, and they continue onward.

Their trudging feet resume their rhythm: a series of _crunches_ followed occasionally by a grunt as they climb over a fallen tree. Kurapika sighs in relief as the wind carries the smell of hot cider from their village. His snowshoes press down into Pairo’s footprints, turning them from a sky blue to a deeper gray.

Then he stops. His breath comes out in a ragged plume. “Pairo. You’re right.”

Pairo stops mid-step, looking over his scarf-swallowed shoulder to look at Kurapika. “You mean…?”

Kurapika nods. “We’re being hunted.” His heart pounds harshly in his chest as he turns back the way they came. “What now?”

“Father said to walk backward very slowly, and not to run. Predators don’t like being watched.”

“Mother told me that too…alright.”

They do as instructed, which is difficult in snowshoes, but somehow they manage. Unfortunately, the wind isn’t blowing in their direction, so they can’t catch the predator’s scent. _We just have to get home, that’s all. If we can do that…!_

Above them, snow begins to fall in big, wet flakes—they don’t float, but instead drop thickly, onto the ground or soaking their winter clothes.

“Is it gone, do you think?” Pairo asks, his voice a raw whisper.

“No,” Kurapika says, dread congealing in his throat. “Pairo…I don’t think it’s an animal.”

A nearby tree _creaks_ and Kurapika’s focus snaps in its direction. At that moment—

—A man clothed in white and gray camouflage drops down from the branches and on top of them.

The world narrows into a wild blur. The man’s heavy; his weight forces Kurapika down, choking the breath from him. His instincts surge within him—he claws and struggles against the man’s grabbing hands. His blades are jabbing against his back, utterly useless.

Frenzied with adrenaline, Kurapika scrabbles for his dropped kindling, grabs a stick—

—And after that point, his memories are vague. He knows the man died, and knows that the elders told Kurapika and Pairo that the man was an anomaly, someone driven mad by the weather. He doesn’t, _can’t_ believe that, not after what happened to his people scant years later.

 

The second time Kurapika kills…

…He remembers it more vividly.

It’s shortly after the massacre of his people. He has stumbled away from the gaping, charred wound where his village once stood, gone closer to the towns beyond the forest than he’s ever dared before.

He washes away the blood in a stream, barely aware he’s touching his skin. His wooden blades rest on a mossy rock close at hand. His mind is still numb, conjuring nightmarish images and sounds from a reality he can’t face yet. His stomach gurgles and churns, threatening to vomit, but it never does. He wishes it would: _Perhaps that will ease this feeling._

As the dirt and blood washes away downstream in a swirling surge, he climbs out with robotic precision and reaches for his clothes.

Kurapika grabs only air, and sees a ragged-looking man a short ways away holding them instead, beginning to run. He’s a thief, no doubt about it, and Kurapika gives chase with his wooden blades. The cool breeze prickles his wet skin; branches and stones _scrape_ and stinging scratches bloom against him.

“Those are mine!” he calls, his voice startling a flock of birds.

The thief is unfazed, not bothering to look back. “Too bad!” His voice is filled with creaky amusement.

Those words and that tone are the last straw. Or perhaps it’s because the man’s a thief.

Kurapika picks up speed, leaps into the air and keeps the blades pointed down.

They pierce the thief’s back with a thick, wet noise. The thief falls forward, his body twitching feebly.

Kurapika snatches his clothes and tugs them on.

Slowly, he returns to himself, and realizes what he’s just done. _This_ wasn’t the person responsible for his clan’s massacre, no numbered spider branded his body with darkness.

This time, his stomach lurches and he welcomes the bitter illness. _Let this be a lesson to myself…only the Phantom Troupe deserves my wrath!_

He knows full well that there are many cruel people in this world, and people who suffer under them—the Kurta would want him to protect the innocent and uphold the law. And so he shall. But in this moment of foolish rage, his vengeance solidifies as if it were another bone in his back.

 

The third time Kurapika kills…

…It’s Uvogin, the beginning of his vengeance coming to fruition. The fight isn’t as arduous as expected, considering his opponent—but then Kurapika’s nothing if not prepared.

He learns many things about himself during this murder: his _Hatsu_ is as powerful as his pledge demanded it, and despite hating Uvogin and what he stands for, torture is sickening to him. His mind reels as Uvogin writhes in pain before him: _How could the Phantom Troupe_ do _things like this? How could they enjoy suffering?_ He can’t understand it, and part of him is glad of it.

Kurapika understands Uvogin’s stubborn refusal to give in to his demands all too well, but he refuses to admit it. The idea that the Phantom Troupe could be family is unthinkable, _impossible._ That doesn’t fit his plan at all.

 _That doesn’t matter._ Kurapika watches Uvogin’s chest convulse and still with impassive eyes. _In the end, you will all die alone anyway._

Kurapika gives Uvogin a proper burial, his shovel piercing and lifting the dirt with the ease of a knife through flesh. He doesn’t think about the cooling, stiffening corpse beside him, a grim companion. He focuses his mind on the fights ahead, and on the memory of his loved ones that the Phantom Troupe has tarnished.

_Finally, you will have peace. Just a little while longer…!_

 

When Kurapika puts down his weapons…

…It isn’t because of any revelation about his path, or comforting words from someone close, despite that seeming very common in this world. Rather, it’s because Kurapika is _tired._ Tired of retrieving his clan’s eyes only to feel emptier with each acquisition, tired of hunting and killing the Phantom Troupe yet never feeling like he accomplished anything. _If I had my clan restored before me, would I feel content? Is that even possible for me now?_

And yet, the Phantom Troupe is dead, and his clan’s eyes have been restored to him. He kept his oath, despite everything.

With a heart numbed by weariness, he uses his phone for the first time in years.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out who to call—Leorio practically stapled his number to Kurapika’s forehead. He dials the number with chilly, raw fingers; winter’s winds whistle down the dark alleyways of the city whose name he can’t recall, to barge into his grimy one-room apartment. He presses the receiver to his ear, the warmth of the plastic already growing slippery with sweat.

Leorio picks up remarkably fast. “ _Kurapika…?_ ”

He sounds like he expects this to be a prank, yet there’s a wisp of hope in his voice that makes Kurapika’s heart lurch like a taut chain.

“…Hello, Leorio,” Kurapika says softly, his words almost an exhale.

“ _Kurapika_ ,” Leorio says again, the gentleness of his voice a foreign sound in this cold land.

“I called because”—Kurapika’s throat is raw, he swallows thickly—“because my revenge is done. I think.”

“ _…Good._ ” It sounds like Leorio means it.

Kurapika flicks his gaze at the bleeding-neon glare of the assembled Scarlet Eyes, a poor excuse for a hearth. He looks away, to avoid their stares—he doesn’t even know which pairs are his parents.

“…If you’ll have me,” he says, his voice still raw with cold (or something else), “I’d like to visit you. Perhaps stay awhile, if—”

“ _—Well_ obviously _!_ ” Leorio huffs, finally sounding more like the good-hearted hooligan Kurapika remembers. “ _If I’d known where you were, I’d have dragged your ass here ages ago!_ ”

Foolishly, it takes Kurapika a moment to realize the rasping sound coming from his throat is laughter. “Forgive me, Leorio. I’ve…probably missed out on many memories.”

Leorio’s sigh _hisses_ against Kurapika’s ear through the receiver. “ _Hurry, then, and we can catch up. I’ll call Melody, too, is that okay?”_

Kurapika doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

After they work out travel arrangements, Kurapika hangs up with great reluctance. He stands in the unnatural light of his “home”, and for a moment he longs for the forests of the Kurta clan. But he smiles wryly and shakes his head: _My foolishness seems never-ending. That world was beautiful, but it was never truly peaceful. Leorio’s home will surely be a mess, yet…_

With that warm thought, he strides over to the Scarlet Eyes and places a gentle hand on the topmost jar.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, and his heart feels a little lighter with each word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D Feedback is appreciated.


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